


that old platitude (read all about it!)

by schism



Series: enemies, closer [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hallucinations, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Squabbling, an array of people named Frank, ed meets martin, it goes... surprisingly well, the tabloids are at it again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-02-16 07:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13049232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schism/pseuds/schism
Summary: Ed and Oswald reach a second agreement. But hey, free publicity.[Direct sequel tothis, which I'd suggest reading first if you want to know what you're getting into.][ETA: Indirect sequel now availablehere.}





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this semester has been kicking my butt this past month, but here i am at last... expanding this story by request.
> 
> (because it's not like i wanted to do it at all no sirree.... c:)
> 
> enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit note 29/01/2018: fixed up... well, a lot of the sentences so that this hopefully makes more sense.

He must be going insane.

It’s the only explanation Ed can come up with for why he accepted Oswald’s offer of an alliance as he mulls it over in the backseat of the car. Which Oswald seems to be driving through every single pothole on the streets of Gotham, and then some.

Or maybe Oswald is.

Going insane, that is.

Which would explain a lot, now that Ed thinks about it, least of all why he’s suddenly a team player again.

He spares a glance to the back of Oswald’s head, watches the passing glow of the streetlights catch in the strands of purple that would be barely visible otherwise; a new addition, then, and one he begrudgingly has to admit is not a bad one.

And its half uncertainty for the distant future and half nervousness for the immediate future making him turn his hat over and over in his hands, if only as a distraction, an action Ed thinks unobtrusive enough, right up until Oswald snaps at him.

“Will you stop getting glitter all over my new car,” Oswald says sharply when they’ve been on the road for ten minutes and half the backseat seems to be covered in flecks of glitter.

Ed starts, nearly dropping the hat and depositing more glitter in the process.

Oh, crud.

Oswald does that thing where he inhales sharply through his nose and closes his eyes for a moment as if in prayer. Or in imagining the specific way he’s going to kill someone.

In this case, said someone is probably Ed.

“Just… put the hat on your head if you must, so long as you stop fidgeting with it,” Oswald says, kinder this time, but it’s still an order.

And an unreasonable one, really.

“The car is too small, it’s going to hit the… the–” Ed knows there’s a specific word for it, but it doesn’t come, so he pauses and starts over– “It’s going to hit the ceiling every time you hit a pothole. Which you do a lot, by the way,” he says, leaning into the space between the front seats.

“I can’t avoid potholes if the whole street is one big pothole. And in a car the ceiling is called a headliner. And…” Oswald pauses for a moment. “You know what? I’ll have to have the car cleaned anyway, so knock yourself out for all I care.”

_Knock yourself…_

Ed feels the indignation settling into his very bones. “I _will not_! I do  _not_  trust you, Oswald, so why would I  _knock myself out_ in your presence? Not to mention that–”

Oswald stops him with a raised hand, a quick motion before it moves back to grip the steering wheel. “It’s a figure of speech, Ed. As you should know, since you’re supposed to be good at those.  _Knock yourself out_ , as in  _be my guest_.”

“Not very helpful.”

With a sigh of exasperation, Oswald adds: “In this case, _knock yourself out_ as in  _do whatever you want with your stupid hat_.”

“My hat isn’t stupid,” Ed replies before placing the decidedly not-stupid hat on his head.

The car jostles ever so slightly and, just as he’d predicted, the hat bumps against the…  _what was it? A headliner_? Against the headliner.

Glitter rains down.

“I told you,” Ed says triumphantly.

Oswald looks like he’s seriously contemplating steering them into a wall.

_Steering them at a wall? Towards?_

It doesn’t matter.

The point is, the air in the car seems heavy with tension –  _is tension something that can have mass?_  not really, Ed guesses, but it certainly seems to at the moment – and still, despite everything, it’s as if this is just another Thursday night and everything is fine when everything is decidedly  _not_  fine.

It’s… it’s safe, somehow, is what it is. Comfortable, even.

Which is nothing short of terrifying.

Even the silence stops being so tense another few minutes in. And if Ed hums under his breath ever so quietly, and if Oswald hears it, neither says anything about it.

 

***

 

Cut to: thirty minutes later.

Ed is stuck in Oswald’s office at the Iceberg Lounge, doing his best to eavesdrop on the conversation happening just outside the door: there’s Oswald’s voice (obviously), joined by what sounds like two people, one being Victor Zsasz and the other someone whose voice Ed doesn’t recognize.

“So… you  _aren’t_ going to kill him?” Zsasz asks, not for the first time, voice slow and drawling. “Or put him back on ice?”

“ _No_ ,” Oswald says, sharp and commanding. Wait, no, not commanding… it’s shrill, is what it is. That’s the word for it. He says something else, something quieter that Ed doesn’t quite manage to catch, before continuing. “Mr. Penn, if you would be so kind as to notify Mr. Fries and Ms. Pike…”

A quiet, meek mumble of something Ed can’t quite make out.

 _Absolutely frustrating how some people just can’t speak loudly and clearly_ , Ed thinks before he remembers having been one of those people. The keyword being ‘having been’. Those days are long gone. Maybe.

Ed’s not completely sure right now, and in any case, the conversation seems to be continuing, so this isn’t exactly the time to ponder over his identity. So, he strains his ears and manages to catch the words of what he assumes to be the afore-addressed ( _is that a word? if it isn’t it frankly should be_ ), irritatingly thin-voiced Mr. Penn: “Sir, but Martin’s visit tomorrow… Do you want me to cancel? With Mr. Nygma’s presence I fear–”

Silence for a moment.

There’s a flash of  _something_  somewhere deep in the pit of Ed’s stomach.

Then, Oswald’s voice again. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll deal with it myself. And not a word to Ms. Falcone, is that clear?”

Then nothing for a while except shuffling footsteps, meaning they’re moving out of earshot.

Curses.

Ed retreats to the desk, leaning against it as nonchalantly as he can even though he knows his clothes look frumpy and half the glitter is gone from his hat, dispersed in the backseat of the black sedan he’d arrived in.

It takes a few minutes more before Oswald finally enters the room, looking more tired in the room’s cold, bluish light than he had back at Cherry’s – looking downright exhausted, really.

“You know it’s rude to eavesdrop on conversations that do not concern you,” he says before narrowing his eyes. “And to wear a hat indoors, but I suppose that’s neither here nor there. Honestly, I don’t know if that  _thing_  can even be called a hat.”

“You know it’s rude to… to… to… oh,  _forget it_ ,” Ed retorts, voice low and threatening before the mental stutter gets the better of him, the words flickering out as he crosses his arms.

He’s upset, he realizes, without knowing exactly why.

_Without knowing why, exactly?_

Anyway.

The point is this: Ed is upset, and Oswald is looking far too amused.

“I  _will_  forget it,” Oswald says gleefully, as if he can’t just resist the opportunity to rub salt in the wound.

_(Which is… an idiom.)_

_(That’s what those are called.)_

Still, after a little moment of just quietly staring while Ed tries to think of something clever to say, Oswald sighs before moving to the ridiculously large and tufted chair at the desk. He settles into it with another sigh, his hand already reaching for the crystal decanter filled to the brim with port.

“Fine,” he says once he’s poured a hearty amount of it into a glass and taken a long sip. “What is it, then?”

“What is what,” Ed replies flatly, feigning ignorance because, of course, there’s the _thing_ – the thing that shall not be named for he has no idea how to name it.

Oswald closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Whatever it is you’re so upset about. Spit it out,” he says, pausing for a beat before adding, “ _not_  literally. As in _whatever it is, just say it_.”

“I  _know_  what it means,” Ed replies, crossing his arms and feeling the tips of his ears reddening. “You don’t need to be so condescending.”

“See, we’re making progress already,” Oswald says with a tight smile. “But you’re not all that subtle right now: if I have to ask what the problem is one more time, I’m calling Victor back in and we can have  _his_  input – which I’m hoping it won’t have to come to. So, out with it.”

Before he even realizes he’s saying them, the words leave Ed’s mouth, sounding smaller and weaker than they have any right to. “Who is  _Martin_?”

Oswald blinks for a little while, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Ed hates Oswald more than ever.

“Is… is  _that_  what this is about?” Oswald asks eventually, huffs of laughter peppered between the words. “I’ll tell you what – you can meet him tomorrow, if you want. Although I have no idea why you would care about who he is in the first place.”

Ed does his best not to howl with frustration. “I don’t need to _meet_ him to find out who he is,” he says, that irritating feeling of lostness gone and replaced by an indignant conviction that’s comfortable in its familiarity.

“Then do a little bit of detective work if you can’t wait another… what, sixteen hours, more or less? Find out who he is, if you must,” Oswald says, smiling in a particularly cryptic way that is irritating Ed to a frankly embarrassing degree.

“Maybe I will,” Ed replies before remembering the shred of dignity he’s still got left. “It’s not like I care, though.”

“Okay,” Oswald says simply with a weird look in his eyes, and it’s as if he knows a secret that Ed doesn’t.

Which, to be fair, he does (e.g. the whole  _Martin_  thing), but it doesn’t seem like that’s all it is, and all said look does is fuel Ed’s irritation.

 

***

 

Cut to: sixteen hours later, more or less.

Part of Ed thinks this is some sort of hallucination, which… honestly, would support the insanity hypothesis.

Or maybe it’s just some sort of  _folie à deux_ , although who he shares it with he can’t really say.

Or maybe it’s just a lingering after-effect of his time spent frozen in a block of ice.

See, the thing is…

Well, the dread  _Martin_  is…

He’s a surprisingly adorable probably-nine-year-old, is what he is, with wide eyes, curly hair, and a little notepad on a string around his neck. He even has a little bowtie and a little vest; color-coordinated, of course.

And, combined with the smug looks Oswald keeps shooting at Ed over the kid’s shoulder, the whole picture is hovering somewhere between charming and annoying, eventually landing closer to annoying.

“Martin,” Oswald says, resting one hand on the boy’s shoulder and waving the other towards Ed, the smugness on his face bleeding into his voice. “This is Ed. I’ve told you about him.”

The kid frowns at Ed, far more menacing than such a small child should be capable of, but then again, he does have the Penguin as an influence in his life.

Some part of Ed remembers that one should be nice to children unless incited otherwise, so he forces a smile and says, “Hello, Martin. It’s nice to meet you.”

The kid frowns some more.

“Not a man of many words, is he?” Ed says, directing the words at –  _towards? isn’t it the same thing…?_  – at / towards Oswald. “I suppose the notepad makes sense, if that’s the case.”

Oswald shrugs. “He talks in his own way – sometimes with words, sometimes with pictures. Not inherently worse or better than most of us, I think.”

In the time Ed’s eyes have been off the kid, Martin has grabbed said notepad and is furiously scribbling something on it before turning towards Oswald and showing it, pointedly keeping it – whatever  _it_  may be – from Ed.

 _Look at you_ , a part of Ed’s mind whispers.  _The big bad Riddler, driven to petulant jealousy by a child. Is this what things have come to? Then again, you’re not the Riddler anymore… so maybe this is perfectly fitting after all._

“Well, yes,” Oswald is saying in response to whatever is on the notepad. “But we have an… agreement now. He helps me, and I help him in return.”

The kid’s brow furrows for a moment before he rips the first page off the pad, crumples –  _crumbles_? No, it should be  _crumples_ , right? –  it and tucks it in his pocket. He scribbles something on the fresh sheet, something short by the looks of it because he holds it up again soon enough.

And Ed still can’t see what it is.

It is, however, something that makes Oswald smile. “I suppose you could call it that,” he says, looking at the kid like he’s proud. “I’m glad to see you remember our first lesson.”

The kid beams back – almost disgustingly heartwarming – before looking back to Ed. He nods, once, a signal of hesitant approval.

Approval for _what_ , exactly, Ed doesn’t know.

“What did you say?” he asks, realizing for the first time that he’s an awful lot taller than the kid, speaking down to him.

The kid seems to realize it, too, and makes a beeline for Oswald’s ridiculously high-backed desk chair. Before anyone can react, Martin is sitting at the desk, scribbling his reply.

Ed looks to Oswald.

Oswald shrugs.

And he’s… surprisingly nonchalant, is the thing. Relaxed, even, with this little person that is a virtual –  _virtually a?_  – stranger to Ed and yet someone Oswald seems to treat far better than any of his actual friends.

Despite the fact he can’t have known the kid for longer than a few weeks at best.

It’s strange.

Almost domestic, even, in a way Ed’s never imagined Oswald was capable of; yet another facet of an impossible puzzle revealed. Part of Ed wonders if he’ll live long enough to manage to get a glimpse at the whole picture, but the thought is vanquished quickly enough when the kid holds up the notepad for Ed to see.

Except he’s a bit too far away, so Ed will have to step closer to get a good look.

_Maybe he should’ve gotten Lee to take a look at his glasses when there was time. Maybe he needs a new prescription. Can Lee give out prescriptions for glasses? She isn’t an opt… opto… an eye doctor._

A pointed cough from Oswald’s direction brings him back to the present.

Taking a few steps closer, Ed can see the kid’s drawn a picture of two stick figures shaking hands, the lines steady and sure. One looks a bit like him, taller than the other and wearing glasses, and the other looks a bit like Oswald, shorter and holding a cane in its free hand.

It’s a surprisingly good drawing for a probably-nine-year-old – at least Ed assumes as much, given he’s not exactly a connoisseur of children’s artwork. For all its potential artistic merit, though, the drawing’s meaning eludes him.

“It means we’re conspirators,” Oswald supplies when it’s clear Ed doesn’t know what to make of the picture. Martin nods, taking the notebook back and pulling the sheet of paper off. Then, his small hands crossed on the desk, he watches them silently.

“Okay,” Ed says, unsure how else he’s supposed to respond.

The whole thing seems like a private joke between Oswald and Martin, one that Ed is decidedly excluded from – and it’s not a good feeling.

He refuses to be excluded any longer, and that need to know is achingly familiar, even if it’s not nearly as all-consuming as it’s been before.

However, Oswald seems to notice Ed’s disappointment. “It’s one of the first things I taught him after we dealt with some bullies,” he says, smiling proudly at the kid before turning back to Ed. “I’d say life is easier that way, wouldn’t you?”

He does have a point.

 

***

 

Cut to: another sixteen hours later, more or less.

Ed wakes up in a bed that is not his own.

A few seconds later, he remembers where he is; while it wasn’t his bed two days ago, it was his yesterday and it’s his today.

Tomorrow, too, probably, if Oswald doesn’t suddenly change his mind and decide to kill him. But that seems unlikely at best, given that yesterday’s dinner for three at the city’s second most expensive and exclusive restaurant went better than expected.

 _A lesson in table manners and public behavior_ , Oswald had said in explanation, but as much as Ed could see, it was just an excuse to spoil the kid a little bit.

So far it seems like he’s raising himself an heir, but… what does Ed know? This strangely friendly side of Oswald is one he doesn’t easily recognize.

Perhaps there’s an ulterior motive he can only guess at.

In any case, it seems Ed himself is a part of it now, for better or worse.

So, he gets up and gets ready for the day, whatever it may entail.

He should really bring up the make-Ed-smart-again part of deal with Oswald, now that he thinks about it – because wasn’t the whole reason he agreed to this the thought that Oswald has funds and resources that Ed himself doesn’t and can thus hasten his return to full health?

He mulls it over while brushing his teeth in the  _en suite_ , figures out what he thinks is a pretty good way to word it, and decides to bring it up over breakfast. After he’s done with finding out where his hat is gone, though, because he’d put it on the currently-empty dresser last night but now it’s nowhere to be found.

If he’s being honest, the hat might be the more immediate concern of the two.

So, Ed makes his way to the dining room, intent on addressing the mystery of the missing hat, and finds Oswald and a man he doesn’t recognize already waiting. Oswald looks… he’s not sure, exactly, what that particular expression is, but the other man is trembling with –  _from? either works, right?_ – with and from worry.

Whatever their problem is can wait, though – first things first.

“Where’s my hat?” Ed asks the moment he lays eyes on Oswald.

Oswald looks surprised for a split second before smugly raising an eyebrow. “I threw it out.”

If he…

There’s a flash of anger somewhere behind Ed’s ribs. “Excuse me?” he says, crossing his arms. Surely, Oswald didn’t…

“It was an eyesore,” Oswald replies simply. “If you ask me, I did the world a favor.”

“I  _didn’t_   _ask_ ,” Ed hisses back, feeling the old murderous impulses rising to the surface once more, just like old times. “You had no right to throw it away.”

Oswald smiles sweetly. “Oh, I didn’t throw it  _away_. I threw it in the fireplace.”

Ed holds back a scream.

As it stands right now, there are two courses of action he can take.

Option one: Ed strangles Oswald. Mysterious Man has time to run for help. Either Oswald’s cronies kill Ed or the police will arrest him and take him to prison. Or worse, to Arkham.

Option two: Ed doesn’t do anything. His head explodes from the sheer pressure of suppressed rage.

Neither seems like a good option.

In his anger, he almost doesn’t notice the mysterious man step the slightest bit forward and clear his throat.

“I don’t belong to you,” Ed says, the third man in the room all but forgotten, moving closer to the table Oswald’s sitting at with that insufferably smug expression firmly in place. “And neither do my things.  _You don’t get to decide_ –”

Oswald laughs. “And what, pray tell, are you going to do about it, Ed?” he replies, standing up, chin defiantly set, and, somehow, it’s not about the hat anymore.

The mysterious man clears his throat again, getting their attention at last. It’s as if a trance is broken – Ed notices for the first time how close Oswald’s face is to his own and takes a step back, feeling blood rush to the tips of his ears.

“What is it, Mr. Penn?” Oswald asks pointedly, turning to the third man, his voice harsh and cold; somehow, he looks almost disappointed.

“Mr. Cobblepot, sir, the… the newspaper. What do you intend to do about it?” the mysterious man now revealed as the elusive Mr. Penn says, hands shaky as he holds the paper up. It’s  _The_   _Gotham Enquirer_ , one of the city’s many tabloid newspapers – one of the bigger ones.

At first, Ed doesn’t even register what’s on the front page.

Then, he sees it.

It’s a semi-blurry photograph of them at dinner, Martin nowhere in sight. And they’re looking at each other with small smiles, as if…

As if…

Oh, crud.

Ed knows what the headline is going to be even before he reads it.

 ** _PENGUIN OUT ON ROMANTIC DATE WITH MYSTERY MAN_** , the headline boasts, a smaller but equally worrisome –  _worrying? worthy of worry?_   does it even matter at this point? –  **MORE ON PAGE 5**  tacked to the bottom of the image.

“That’s not my name,” Ed manages to croak out once he’s figured out how to breathe again.

“Is that really your takeaway from this,” Oswald asks, the words flat. “Mr. Penn, if you would…”

The man hands the paper over to Ed and leaves the room quickly and quietly. “I’ll be outside,” he says before closing the door behind him. There’s an audible sigh of relief before the man’s footsteps fade away.

“Did you do this?” Ed asks once the lackey is gone, voice quieter than he would like it to be.

Oswald looks insulted by the very notion. “I’m not one for cheap tricks. As you should know by now.”

“Fair enough,” Ed replies, narrowing his eyes before opening the newspaper to the  **PAGE 5**  that promises the puzzling  **MORE**.

It takes him a few minutes to get through the text – and it’s nothing unusual for a tabloid, mainly wild speculation and stabs in the dark, things he knows are blatant lies. So, that by itself isn’t particularly interesting.

If anything, he’s infuriated by the article (if it can be called that) because none of the buffoons at the tabloid seem to have recognized him, referring to him mainly as  _mystery man_  or  _Penguin’s new beau_. Not even a hint in the text that anyone noticed he could be, oh, perhaps  _the Riddler_?

“How did no one recognize me?” Ed mutters to himself, running his eyes over the wall of text again to see if he’s missed something, but there’s not a scrap.

“Never mind that,” Oswald says, grabbing the newspaper out of his hands. “The real question is how we’re going to deal with  _this_ ,” he continues, holding the newspaper up and away from his body as if the very thing offends him. The Ed and Oswald on the photograph continue their smiling, unaware of what they’ve done.

“It’s just the  _Enquirer_ , it’ll blow over in a couple of days as long as we keep a low profile,” Ed says, feeling the thrumming of his heart in his chest quicken. “Right?”

It’s just one ridiculous tabloid paper.

How bad could it get?

The moment Ed thinks that, Oswald’s phone rings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> r.i.p. ed's hat (2017-2017), you were taken from us far too soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's six in the morning and everything is fine this is fine it's fine haha
> 
> (sorry for the long wait, everyone, real life done did get me good this month but i'm back along with my favourite emotionally stunted losers c:)

It seems a little bit like the world stops turning for a moment.

The ringing of Oswald’s phone is a piercing, distracting sound in the otherwise quiet room.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” Ed says when the ringtone is about halfway done – and he hates himself a little bit for knowing that. Why does his brain decide to concede such trivial details when it falls short of relaying what really matters to him?

_Relaying to him what really matters?_

Either one.

Anyway, he says it, and it’s as if the spell is broken.

Oswald picks up the phone. “Good morning, Sofia,” he says before moving towards the door. “Yes, I saw.”

For a moment he stands still, listening to whatever this Sofia is saying, until he mouths something that looks like _I’ll be right back_ and leaving the room. Leaving Ed alone in the room, more precisely, with the newspaper.

With everything that the newspaper implies.

And honestly, it’s mostly baffled curiosity that makes Ed open the **MORE** on **PAGE 5** again, reading the words over and over until they seem burned into his memory. Then, and only then, he closes the _Enquirer_ and stares at photograph on the front page again.

Because, the thing is, they look…

They look…

 _Happy_ , is the word he’d use. _Happy_ as if the past seven months have been nothing but a bad dream. _Happy_ as if everything is okay – better than okay, really, when it’s anything but and that’s something they’re both painfully aware of.

Well, not necessarily _painfully_ , but certainly _aware of_.

Because, the thing is, it’s just like old times, a photograph of Cobblepot and Nygma on the cover of a newspaper as if nothing has changed. And the photograph itself, to be fair, is not particularly troublesome. Even the sappy expressions can be explained away quite easily: being drunk, being in public, pretense due to being in the presence of a child, so on and so forth.

But the thing that bothers Ed most, the thing he can’t explain away, is that whoever wrote the article, whoever took the photograph, whoever was involved with the story?

None of them recognized him.

Was everything he’d done really for nothing? What more did these people want? The Riddler had, for the lack of a better word, terrorized the city, held it in his grip like a jealous child holds a favorite toy, relentless and unyielding. And still it wasn’t enough – mere months later, they’ve already forgotten.

And there’s nothing he can do about it.

He’s not the Riddler.

And, surprisingly enough, he finds himself considering that maybe it’s for the best. After all, was it worth it? All that there had been was loneliness, pervasive and cutting, a search for something – or someone – worth his time.

But if no one even remembers… if it was all for nothing…

 _And what are you going to do about it, Eddie?_ the pesky part of his mind whispers as he stares at his own face on the photograph, its grayscale mouth contorted into something that looks an awful lot like a fond smile. _You’re bored. This is boring. Is this really what you want? To be forgotten? A blip among constellations?_

 _We can show this city who we are… show them that the Riddler won’t be forgotten so easily. Or we can fade into oblivion with the rest of the riff-raff. Which even_ you _know would be a shame._

And as much as Ed hates to admit it, the other side does have a point.

He made the deal with Oswald and came here for one reason – and one reason only.

It would be best to not forget that.

 

***

 

Cut to: two hours after lunch, give or take.

Ed knows there’s a saying about _best laid plans_ , even if he can’t remember it.

And, honestly, in his defense it had been a good plan. Up to the moment he’d put the phone down after leaving the anonymous tip about the identity of _Penguin’s paramour,_ or whatever else they’d called him in the article, up until then the plan had been infallible in his mind.

After that, though?

After that, the reality of what he’d done had sunken – _sinked…? no._ – had _sunken_ in. Okay, fair enough, maybe not exactly after that – more like when he’d notified Oswald of what he’d done and had been met with hysterical laughter.

“I think something is wrong with my ears because I seem to have heard you say you called the press and outed yourself,” Oswald says once he’s mostly stopped laughing and moved on to chuckling incredulously.

“Why is that so hard to believe? I called them up to get the story right,” Ed says, ever so slightly indignant. Aren’t his motivations obvious? “Which, honestly, they should’ve figured out themselves who you were with, but since they failed to that, I set them on the right course myself.”

“Think about what you just told me for longer than two seconds,” Oswald says, pouring himself a glass from the half-empty carafe on his desk. “See if you understand why I’m having trouble believing you.”

Ed does.

A split second later, the realization sets in.

Oh, _crud_.

“Seems I don’t have to explain why it was a terrible idea after all,” Oswald says, looking like he’s a few seconds away from howling with laughter again. “The old you would have done nothing of the sort.”

“Which is exactly why I need to get back to the way I was. And don’t be so smug about it yourself,” Ed shoots back, grasping at what’s left of his dignity even though, at this point, there’s not much to grasp at.

“Your name, your precious _reputation_ is on the line,” Ed continues. “What do you think is going to happen to your empire once word gets out that not only is _the Riddler_ alive and well but that _the Penguin_ is treating him to _dinner_ …”

He trails off, wondering if he should add a few condescending _tut_ s to drive the point home. Then again, if he was going to do that, he should’ve done it immediately – it would be weird to do it now, after such a long pause.

And anyway, it seems as if the words have done their job well enough: Oswald’s knuckles are white around the stem of his glass, his mouth pressed into a tight line.

Despite himself, Ed smiles. “That’s what I thought.”

“Did you consider the fact that if I go down, _you_ go down with me?” Oswald asks instead of saying… whatever it is Ed had expected him to say. “If I have nothing…”

_I can’t fix you._

Oswald doesn’t exactly spell it out, but… he does have a point. Unfortunately.

“What if we…” Ed starts but stops, feeling himself getting hesitant in the way he hates being.

And Oswald doesn’t even look up, simply stares sullenly into his wine glass as if there are answers hidden somewhere within.

Ed looks at the wine glass for a while, too.

Then, an inkling of an idea. How good a plan it is, exactly, he’s not yet sure – it is, after all, hardly more than idea.

But perhaps…

“What if we went with it?” he says.

Oswald still doesn’t look away from the glass.

Ed clears his throat.

Still nothing.

“ _Oswald_. What if we went with it,” Ed says again, more forcefully this time, the words no longer a question.

“I heard you the first time,” Oswald replies, finally looking. “And, frankly, it’s a stupid idea. How on Earth do you imagine we could ever make it work, given the _sworn-enemies_ image?”

Ed thinks for a moment. “I’m going out on a limb here and guessing the general public doesn’t know why you had me frozen in a block of ice.”

Oswald’s brows go up a notch. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

Ed narrows his eyes in response.

“ _Fine_ ,” Oswald says, crossing his arms and leaning back on the ridiculously high-backed chair. “They got fed a different story, yes. Something about you having some terrible disease or other, asking me to preserve you in ice until a cure was found, so on. Not that far from the truth, in my opinion.”

There’s a flash of anger somewhere behind Ed’s ribs. But that can be dealt with later. For now, there are far more urgent matters that need to be taken care of first: namely, the Riddler-and-Penguin-date-or-dinner situation.

Anyway, the point is there’s no time to address the underlying issue when there’s one that seems to be overlying – _or_ overlaying _…? but isn’t that a different thing? Is_ overlying _even a word? Ed thinks it is but doesn’t know for sure._ – that seems to be superimposed on everything else.

“ _Right_ ,” Ed says after a moment, grabbing a few sheets of paper and a pen from the desk. “The groundwork is already in place, then. At least _that_ will work in our favor.”

“You know what _won’t_ work?” Oswald replies, watching as Ed scribbles the first bullet points down. “No one who knows the first thing about me is going to believe _I_ would…” he pauses for a moment, searching for the right words, the slightest hint of a flush on his cheeks. “That _we_ would…”

Ed narrows his eyes again. “Which brings us to the second phase of my plan,” he says, finishing the third bullet point in the first section that simply reads **_more_** before moving on to the second section. Speaking of… “The second phase being, of course, convincing those who know what _really_ happened. Also known as _convincing the Gotham underworld and assorted others_.”

He’ll have to write that down later.

 

***

 

Cut to: three or so hours later.

For once, an actual play (and a Shakespearean one at that) is being done at the Monarch Theater. Which, to be fair, is what the place was initially built for; nowadays the place is mostly used as a cinema.

A shame, really, given the beauty of the old building.

Then again, it doesn’t really matter, because phase one of The Plan – which Ed figures deserves the capitalization since it truly is a cunning one, nearly worthy of the Riddler – is a-go.

_Is a-going?_

_Has commenced?_

It doesn’t matter.

The point is, they’re at the theater, on what shall be referred to as their second ‘date’ – which, given that the first one hadn’t been a date at all, and given that this one isn’t really one either, shouldn’t really be called that. But since it’s what they’re portraying it as, it’s simpler to refer to it as such.

So, they’re on their second ‘date’ – and Ed really needs to stop thinking about the word ‘date’.

“Are you sure this would have been appropriate to bring a child to?” he finds himself asking as they settle into their seats in the front mezzanine – visible enough that people will see them together while being good enough that they can actually enjoy the play. “I mean, _Othello_ is hardly suitable for… however old Martin is.”

Oswald rolls his eyes. “He’s ten, and he’s already read the script. Besides, he’s not here with me tonight. You are. Which, frankly, is a decision I’m starting to regret. Why did I let you convince me to do this again?”

“For the greater good, obviously,” Ed replies. “In the long run, it’s a beneficial arrangement for both of us. As you should know, since we went over the pros and cons approximately nine hundred times in the car.”

“Fair enough,” Oswald concedes. “However, we have other things to worry about right now. Speaking of.” He conjures up a pleasant smile, nodding his head slightly towards a group of ostentatiously dressed women fluttering by.

From the corner of his eye, Ed can see the women exchanging uneasy looks accompanied by hesitant glances towards the pair of them. “Nosy shrews,” he whispers as the women pass.

Oswald nods slightly, signaling his agreement, and keeps smiling.

Ed does his best impression of a charming smile.

“You’re just baring your teeth at me,” Oswald mutters, discreet enough that the nearby group of women won’t hear. “At least _try_ to look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Well…

Ed grabs ahold – _or_ a hold _? who knows._ – of Oswald’s hand. “How about that?” he asks, pointedly ignoring the passers-by; it’s odd, finding that the sudden attention doesn’t bother him as much as he expected it to.

And for that matter, neither does holding his… whatever-Oswald-is-to-him-right-now’s hand in public.

Which is something Ed should have a think about sometime later.

Preferably after The Plan and all it encompasses is over.

“What are you doing?” Oswald mutters, his eyes slightly widened, bringing Ed back to the present.

The hand-holding thing.

Right.

“I’m doing what you asked me to. By which I mean I’m selling the ruse,” Ed replies with a light shrug. “I thought it was obvious. Stop looking so scandalized, people will notice.”

“Stop doing things like this without consulting me first, then,” Oswald says nonchalantly, smile still firmly in place even if its warmth doesn’t reach his eyes all the way. “Besides, I thought the whispering was enough. Isn’t this supposedly only our second date?”

For all his complaining, though, he hasn’t taken his hand back.

And, to be fair, it’s far less difficult to hold on than Ed had figured it would be, especially with everything they still haven’t talked about suspended heavy in the air between them.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re old-fashioned?” Ed says instead of voicing said things, which the auditorium of a theater really isn’t the place to talk about.

The dimming lights stop whatever answer Oswald was going to come up with, and they sit in silence as Roderigo and Iago take to the stage.

 

***

 

Cut to: the next day, sometime before noon.

The good news is this: the word has gotten out about Ed and Oswald supposedly dating.

The bad news is this: the word has gotten out about Ed and Oswald supposedly dating.

Which… was The Plan all along, really, so he can’t complain.

However, The Plan had not accounted for them having such a short amount of prep time for phase two, nor a meeting with someone falling under said phase this soon. Being: Sofia, who is, apparently, the daughter of Carmine Falcone, which is something Oswald had deigned to share mere minutes before her arrival.

“I didn’t know he had a daughter,” Ed had responded, unsure of what else to say.

“Not many people did,” Oswald had said, running a hand over his suit jacket to make sure it was neat and sitting well. Which, now that Ed thinks about it, he must have known it was. “The old man knows how to keep secrets, I’ll give him that. In any case, I’m on good terms with her, at least for the moment, so do behave yourself.”

Words that had been far more condescending than necessary.

“I’m not a child, Oswald. Stop treating me like one,” Ed had said, tone flat. Because they’d talked about this before – and yet, nothing had changed.

Which he should’ve known to expect, really.

Oswald had rolled his eyes in response. “Then stop acting like one. Surely by now you have managed to figure out–” he’d said, cut off by a series of sharp knocks on the office door. “Never mind.”

“ _Spit it out_ ,” Ed had hissed back, voice low and fiery irritation rippling in his chest. “I should’ve managed to figure out _what_? That you’ll share information I _need to know_ only as an afterthought? That you have no intention of helping me get back to who I was before you froze me – back to who I’m _meant_ to be? That this all may in fact be a complete waste of time?”

“Keep your voice down. We’ll talk about it later,” Oswald had said with a note of finality before opening the door for Martin and Sofia, not leaving room for Ed to reply either way.

Which leads to where they are now, awkwardly standing in the office. Well, at least the adults are – Martin doesn’t really seem to care all that much, off to the side and looking at the bookshelf after greeting both Oswald and Ed.

Sofia is the one who breaks the silence. “So, Mr. Nygma,” she says, smiling pleasantly; the expression is both unnerving and comforting at the same time, easing the existing tension in the room as much as bringing a new layer to it. “We meet at last. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

There’s hardly any point in saying the customary reply of _all good things, I hope_ , considering who the reason for their meeting is and the uncertain footing those two seem to currently be standing on.

So, instead, Ed smiles politely. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same, Ms. Falcone.”

“Please, call me Sofia,” she replies, her smile as sharp as a razor.

At once, Ed realizes this entire interaction is a test, the purpose of which he doesn’t know.

Is she sizing him up for unknown purposes?

Or maybe that’s just how her face works.

Either way, it’s putting Ed on edge.

Oswald, however, remains unperturbed. “Thank you for dropping off Martin, Sofia,” he says, smiling warmly at her. There is, however, a hint of steel in that smile – a coldness that Ed doesn’t think should be there if the two really are on good terms for now as Oswald had said.

 _Yet another piece of crucial information he’s failed to share_ , the voice in the back of Ed’s mind whispers. _And he’ll only keep failing you. You should have figured that out by now, purely based on experience._

It does have a point. After all, it’s one step forward, two steps back with Oswald – maybe has been from the start.

_You should stop relying on him, stop hoping he’ll be the one to fix you. We don’t need fixing. And we don’t need him._

Which, to be fair, is easier said than done. And the worst part is Ed only has himself to blame – he’d been the one to call the tabloid and to out himself, he’d been the one to suggest they go with the story instead of letting it be forgotten. He has, for the lack of a better expression, been digging his own grave.

The mild discomfort of Oswald’s bony elbow softly connecting with his ribs brings Ed back to the conversation at hand.

“Well, I best be off,” Sofia is saying, smile still in place, extending her hand for Ed to shake. “It was nice to finally meet you, Mr. Nygma.”

“Likewise,” Ed replies, somehow managing to keep his agitation both out of his voice and out of the handshake.

Once she’s done with the other goodbyes, which Ed finds himself failing to pay attention to, Sofia finally goes.

Twenty seconds after the door closes behind her, Ed turns to Martin. “Can you give us a minute? Oswald and I have a few things we need to discuss.”

The kid looks to Oswald for confirmation. Once he gets it, he grabs a book off the bookshelf and leaves the office.

“It’s _later_ ,” Ed says after the door closes. “So, let’s talk. What should I have _managed to figure out_?”

Oswald just looks tired. “There’s nothing wrong with your brain, Ed,” he says, the words sounding hollow. “Nothing physical, anyway.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in.

“How do you know?” Ed asks quietly once he figures he’s mostly managed to get past the initial shock.

Oswald sighs. “I talked to Lee. How did you think I didn’t get mobbed the moment I stepped foot into that awful dive bar? I let her know I was coming,” he says, shifting his weight off his bad leg.

 _He’s been standing too long_ , a part of Ed thinks.

A part that really, really needs to shut up right now.

“After you and I talked,” Oswald continues, “I let her know I was taking you with me. She didn’t want to let you go at first, told me it was, and I quote, ‘unhealthy’ and ‘likely detrimental to his recovery and general well-being’, but I convinced her in the end.”

Lee hadn’t mentioned any of this when Ed had said his goodbyes, had failed to share a most crucial piece of information – _there’s nothing wrong, nothing wrong, nothing wrong_ – and, not to mention, the fact she’d even spoken to Oswald in the first place.

“You _convinced_ her. Meaning: you bribed her,” Ed says eventually, picking out the only detail he can manage to respond to.

“I offered a generous donation to her clinic,” Oswald replies with a shrug. “In any case, I didn’t believe her at first. You were… those first few days were almost unbearable. After the onset of the tabloid fiasco, though, I realized she was right. Haven’t you noticed it yourself?”

“I…” Ed starts, but nothing comes out. He clears his throat, which seems to help a little, but not nearly enough. “I need some time,” he says eventually.

Oswald simply nods, as if he’d been expecting Ed to say it. “I’ll go see what Martin is up to,” he says as he turns to leave the room; as insignificant in the long run as it is, it’s possibly the kindest thing he’s done for Ed in the past week or so.

And Ed can’t help but hate him just a little bit more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a surprise reveal - and surprise angst! - coming as a surprise to... literally no one. oops?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in today's chapter: mild angst continues! nearly no real plot development or side characters! a guest appearance by reflection!riddler as a not-so-subtly disguised character arc device! realizations galore!
> 
> aka i got tired of ed's internal monologue for a hot moment there... so i gave him dialogue with himself. honestly, if the show can do it, so can i.
> 
> [also, a music rec no one asked for: "bodyweight" by annie eve is what i listened to while writing, so check it out if you want to]
> 
> enjoy!

Cut to: five minutes later.

At least, that’s what his watch says.

For all Ed knows, though, it’s been thirty seconds. Maybe it’s been three hours. It sure feels more like three hours.

_There’s nothing wrong with your brain, Ed._

_Nothing physical, anyway._

Surprisingly enough, it’s not really the words themselves that he’s unsettled by. No, what bothers him is the way Oswald had said them – fact, not fiction; truth unstained by the condescending tone he’s become accustomed to. The way he’d looked – exhausted, worn down by some burden which hadn’t alleviated the slightest bit by unveiling the piece of truth he’d kept hidden.

What else is he hiding?

It’s as if an abyss is yawning at his feet, an empty void where minutes ago there had been a concrete floor, and the more he thinks about it, the wider it gets.

 _What did I say about him failing you?_ the voice at the back of his mind says, sounding more and more like himself and yet not quite. _Turn around._

Ed does, facing the mirror on the far wall of the office.

( _Who even hangs a full-length mirror in their office?)_

It doesn’t come as too big of a surprise to see himself staring back.

The surprise, unfortunately, lies in the fact that it’s not him as he is now.

The Mirror-Ed smiles almost sweetly. Well, the Mirror- _Riddler_ does, given how slow and mocking its laughter is once Ed is facing him, not to mention the glint of its bottle-green suit, the corresponding this-side-of-the-looking-glass version of which has since been ruined.

Ed doesn’t know what to say so he just hisses, “You,” and watches as the Mirror-Riddler does a little twirl, its gloved hands going to the lapels of its suit.

 _Me_ , the reflection says, the word punctuated by another low giggle. _Well, **us** , really. What we could be. What we should be. If you would just let me in._

“Let you in where?” Ed can’t help but asking, and he regrets it almost immediately as the reflection laughs some more.

 _In where_ , it says mockingly. _What do you think I am? A vampire?_ It laughs and claps its hands together once, twice. Then, inhumanly fast, it crosses its arms and leans against the frame of the mirror, mouth downturned in disappointment. _That was a joke, you buffoon. And these_ , it continues, tapping on the glass, and Ed could swear he can hear the glass splintering even though no cracks appear, _are no longer made of silver, so it wouldn’t keep me away even if I was a vampire. Besides, you and I both know **he** won’t shell out for the original if he can get one that looks the same for a cheaper price._

Ed fights the urge to ask if it’s talking about the mirror or about them.

Well, about _him_ , since he and the reflection are the same.

Most of the time, anyway.

 _Where you never were, I can never be; look me in the eye and I will never lie_ , the Mirror-Riddler says, tapping its gloved fingers on its dark green bowler hat – not the one Ed had had; the hat on the reflection’s head, although similar, isn’t the one taken from an empty guest room back at the Van Dahl manor.

Meanwhile, the reflection brings its left hand through under its chin and to rest on the side of its face, fingers lightly tapping the cheekbone. _What am I?_

“I don’t know,” Ed says, because he really doesn’t.

It doesn’t sound like a riddle he’s heard before, and besides, what with the disaster back at the apartment of whatever-her-name-was ( _Martha? Minty? M… Myrtle, maybe? The last one sounds the most likely, now that he thinks about it_ ), and his inability to solve riddles meant for children – an embarrassment the like of which he’d never experienced before…

He’s wary to even try answering, is the thing.

Because _trying_ means potential failure, and _failure_ means being outsmarted by his own reflection, which would be a new low, even for him.

 _Stop feeling sorry for yourself and start thinking_ , the reflection replies, disdain dripping from the words. _Or don’t you know how to do that anymore? Is your head really **so** far up your derrière that you can’t see what’s right in front of you?_

Ed decides the rolled _r_ ’s really are the last straw, just before the rest of the Mirror-Riddler’s words sink in.

Right in front of–

Oh.

“A reflection,” Ed says. “The answer is a reflection.”

The Mirror-Riddler laughs again, clapping its hands together. _Bingo_ , it says, grinning, the expression somehow uncomfortably animalistic. _Perhaps things aren’t as dire as previously thought._ **_I_** _would’ve gotten it immediately, of course, but beggars can’t be choosers._

It takes Ed a moment, but the realization is sickly sweet once it arrives. “I’m in control,” he says, the words breathy with disbelief, but the reflection’s smile disappears nonetheless.

 _Aren’t you a smart cookie_ , it replies, lip curled with disgust, inspecting its gloved hand before dropping it and looking up. The motions are inhumanly fast, reminiscent of glitchy stop-motion animation. _Unfortunately, yes._ _I’m confined to the backseat as long as **you** are holding the reins – and it’s just like old times, isn’t it? You, an upstanding citizen; me, whispering in your ear all the bad things you secretly want to do._

_Do you want to go through all that again, knowing that no matter what you do, I will win in the end?_

_Or… you can give in to me, right here, right now._

_We had so much fun when we were me._

_Just let me take charge. God knows you can’t do that by yourself._

The reflection clicks its tongue against the roof of its mouth, somehow producing a metronomic ticking noise. _What will it be, Eddie? Glory or the gutter?_

Ed would be lying if he said the offer wasn’t tempting. But how can he know which choice leads to which outcome? It wouldn’t be wise to–

 _Oh, **please**_ , Mirror-Riddler says, narrowing its eyes – which are bottle green just like the suit, Ed realizes, cold and empty save for a speck of anger; somehow not at all like his own and yet all-too-familiar.

It’s a look he’s not sure he wants to see in his own eyes again.

And Ed knows giving in would mean finally getting revenge. But it would also mean–

The reflection flickers, once, twice, staring back at Ed. _Oh, tell me it’s not **that**_ , it drawls, voice low and gravelly. _Tell me that’s not why you’re hesitating._

“I don’t know what you mean,” Ed replies, crossing his arms.

He has an idea, though. A horrible, disturbing idea.

 _Do I really have to S-P-E-L-L it O-U-T?_ the reflection says, moving its hand in the shape of the letters it spells, wrists turning far too quickly and sharply for the movements to be humanly possible. _I can’t be bought…_

It doesn’t need to say the rest.

“I’m in control,” Ed replies, more forceful this time, reassuring himself as much as than stating a fact. “Not you.”

When did his own brain become a battlefield?

After a moment, he remembers how long it had been that way, how much he wants to avoid having it happen again – but there’s nothing he can do.

 _Fine, remember that you did this to yourself,_ Mirror-Riddler says, rolling its shoulders and cracking its neck. The reflection flickers, going dark for a moment, before revealing itself again, wearing the skin of Oswald as Ed had seen him when he was (not) dead; the apparition gleams ever so slightly from the mixture of seawater, mud, and blood covering his clothes.

 _The trouble with talking to projections of your own psyche_ , Dead-Oswald says, head cocked, oil and tar glinting on its temple, eyes devoid of any emotion, _and you – Ed, **you** of all people – should know this: they know everything you know. Including the things you’re trying not to know. _

The image flickers again, and there’s two of them now, the Mirror-Riddler and Dead-Oswald, but it’s not Dead-Oswald anymore but the real one, and their arms are wrapped around each other, and the little distance that remains between their mouths is closing faster and–

Ed doesn’t even notice he’s moving until his fist connects with the surface of the mirror. It’s a small miracle the glass doesn’t fall and shatter into a thousand pieces; it’s an even bigger miracle that if not for the tiny crack where Ed’s fist had landed, there’s no sign of the impact.

The angry scream that had been seconds away from escaping his throat suddenly dies, and the whimper of pain that comes out in its place leaves a bitter taste in the back of his throat.

As Ed cradles his injured hand, a glance at his watch reveals it’s been twenty minutes since the last time he looked. He can still hear traces of the Mirror-Riddler’s laughter, dancing in the air around him until the noise becomes almost suffocating.

Which is why Ed relocates himself upstairs, if only to get away from the stifling room, sparing neither glance nor word to the kid when he passes by in the hallway.

 

***

 

Cut to: three hours later, more or less.

Ed has managed to avoid Oswald during said hours, but the problem is there’s not exactly that many places to go in the apartment above the Iceberg Lounge. Sure, it’s spacious enough, but it’s nothing like the manor where he could easily avoid any area he knew Oswald was going to be in by using forgotten hallways and the back door.

And sitting alone in the guest bedroom, which for the moment is Ed’s bedroom, really, but he doesn’t really want to dwell on that, has gotten mind-numbingly boring. Especially since every time he closes his eyes to try and fall asleep, the apparitions will show up to taunt him.

After the tenth time or so he gives up on the idea of sleep.

Anyway. The point is this: the apartment is not nearly sufficient in size to keep himself entertained and to keep himself from running into Oswald.

Not that Ed is actively trying to avoid Oswald. Why would he be? It’s not as if this entire situation has spiraled completely out of control.

Then again, Ed’s starting to suspect it hasn’t ever really been under his control at all.

And it seems almost like some divine joke that moments before Ed manages to get back to his self-imposed exile in the guestroom, carrying what little snack food he managed to find in the kitchen and a few books, he runs into Oswald.

Quite literally.

Ed’s meager haul of a half-finished pack of animal crackers and a bag of peanuts hits the floor with a soft _thump_ , but, somehow, he manages to hold on to the books for a second.

 _A second_ being the key word, because he lets go of them instinctively the second Oswald’s leg gives out.

Before Ed even realizes, his hands are around Oswald’s arms, holding him upright, the books lying forgotten on the floor.

“Um,” Oswald says, looking just as surprised as Ed feels, eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

From this close, Ed can see there are tiny bottle-green flecks in Oswald’s eyes he’s never noticed before. Somehow, Oswald looks less exhausted than he had back in the office but the look in his eyes remains the same.

It’s… _soft_ , would be the word.

Kind, even, in a way it hasn’t been in a long time – and best of all, without a hint of pity.

It takes about ten seconds before Ed’s brain reboots and he remembers where he is and what’s happening. “Um,” he says in response at first and then blurts, “Why can’t dinosaurs clap?” before he even realizes he’s doing it.

Oswald’s brow furrows.

Oh, great.

“Because they’re all dead,” Ed continues, having decided that he might as well at this point, and waits for a reaction.

Oswald blinks, once, twice.  Then, an incredulous bout of laughter. “Okay,” he says, and it’s as simple as that.

 _You and I both know he won’t shell out for the original if he can get one that looks the same for a cheaper price_ echoes in the back of his mind, but for the first time, the possibility occurs to Ed that it might not be true.

So, Ed laughs too, and it’s as if there’s a glimmer of hope – because it’s not quite a riddle, but it’s still a start.

Maybe, against all odds, The Plan might still work.

As might further cooperation, now that he thinks about it.

The air in the room becomes very thick all of a sudden, almost… viscous? It’s strange, is what it is. And making breathing difficult as if something is pressing down on Ed’s lungs.

“You can let go of me now,” Oswald says after a moment. “I’m fine.”

“Right,” Ed says and lets go, arms falling uselessly to his sides. 

Oswald looks a little disappointed, and takes a step back. “Right,” he says, “I was just looking for you. There are things we still need to discuss.”

Can’t run from it forever, Ed supposes.

Seems like Oswald has realized that, too.

“We should probably sit down, then,” Ed says, as much for his own benefit as Oswald’s, who nods and moves to the sofa.

Ed takes the armchair, a reasonable distance away but not far enough that it would seem rude, even though a part of him is screaming to get out as quickly as he can and avoid this conversation.

Which, frankly, is ridiculous, because he’s not scared of Oswald. Or anything he has to say.

Then again, he’s more than a little bit uneasy about what his own blabbering mouth might blurt out – but that’s a problem he needs to practice dealing with anyway, and right now seems as good a time as any.

“Right,” he says once they’re both settled in.

“Can we stop saying that?” Oswald asks, and he’s smiling – it’s a genuine smile as far as Ed can tell, perhaps not as vivid as it used to be, but it definitely seems like a start. And in any case it does alleviate some of the heaviness in the room.

“Fair enough,” Ed replies, the uncomfortable pressure in his chest easing the slightest bit. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Considering I was the one who made groundbreaking revelations a few hours ago, I figured it was your turn to talk,” Oswald says, still smiling even if his eyes look just a little bit worried. “If that’s okay with you.”

It takes a moment before the words sink in.

He’s being nice, and for no reason Ed can discern: Ed isn’t in distress, not pushed to a limit like he had been three hours ago. In fact, he’s feeling surprisingly good, for all the mental strain the day has provided so far.

And Oswald’s niceness is so familiar and yet so strange at the same time; as if two worlds are colliding into one, two images, one despised, the other revered, merging into one to create something new.

Compartmentalizing has always been a habit for Ed. But perhaps… the thing is, maybe Oswald can’t be compartmentalized as easily as Ed would like for him to. And perhaps there are other things that can’t be compartmentalized.

A realization which, truthfully, only exacerbates a problem already present; a problem he might be able to voice here and now, he thinks, without too much of a negative impact.

But then again, there’s The Plan. Which, by its very nature, prohibits any type of confession for the time being, if only to avoid making a complicated situation even more complicated. Especially if–

Especially since a lot can, and _did_ , change in the past seven or so months.

Then again, the very existence of The Plan gives Ed an out, no matter how cowardly, a chance to not blurt out the problem he doesn’t know if he should address just yet. Besides, Oswald has shown remarkable patience, now that Ed thinks about it – patience Ed hadn’t thought him capable of, and a patience Ed is forced to count on for just a little while longer.

All of which is why Ed says, “I think it’s time for a public statement. Well, more accurately, an underworld-public statement.”

Oswald seems to be carefully considering his response. “If you’re sure that’s what you want to do,” he says eventually, although he looks like that’s about the last thing he wants to do.

Ed can sympathize.

But they’ve delayed the inevitable for long enough.

Speaking of…

“I’m sure. I do have a few requests, though,” Ed says, and the words don’t feel nearly as cold as they had back when they reached the first agreement, nor do they feel urgent and desperate like the conversation downstairs.

If anything, they feel like a compromise; a compromise he hopes Oswald is willing to make – which, given that he hasn’t done or said anything to indicate he won’t consider it, it seems he might be.

“The first being this: I need to know what I’m getting into. And I don’t mean with regards to our plan, I mean that I need to know what you’re dealing with,” Ed says, pausing for a moment before adding, “All of it. You can’t keep me in the dark anymore.”

And Oswald listens, even offers a small nod at the end. “Okay,” he says, and that’s that.

It’s not at all what Ed expected, if he’s being honest; he’d been ready for another argument, had been prepared to give a long explanation of _why_ he needs to know, only to find there’s no fight coming.

So, the tension in his shoulders that he hadn’t noticed while speaking melts away, leaving him more relaxed than he has been in a long, long time. “Just like that?” he asks, voice softer than he would like it to be.

Oswald shrugs, but his voice is anything but nonchalant when he speaks. “Just like that. I’m tired of fighting a war on all fronts, and I wasn’t lying when I told you I needed allies. And, yes, I was intentionally keeping some things from you, mostly because of your mental state. I can’t undo what I’ve done but I can apologize, at least for that.”

 _And for the rest, too_ , is the part that is missing, the part that he can’t say yet the same way Ed can’t put into words what he suspects to be weighing his chest down.

 

***

 

Cut to: another two or so hours later.

In the bathroom, Ed is about to start brushing his teeth when he makes the unfortunate mistake of moving his elbow just the slightest bit wrong, knocking it into the towel covering the mirror above the sink.

 _Change your mind yet?_ the Mirror-Riddler asks, appearing in front of him in all its bottle-green glory as the towel slips down from the mirror.

“You again,” Ed says, and it sounds about as tired as he feels.

 _Indeed_ , the reflection replies, its right hand on its chest and a bright smile on its face. _I love it when you get all internally tumultuous. But you’re… not._

“I’m in control,” Ed says, and this time, the words ring true: as tired as he is, he’s not frightened. He doesn’t need to be.

 _That may well be_ , the reflection says, any hint of a smile gone. _But not for long._

Finally, it’s Ed’s turn to laugh. “You know everything I know.”

A statement, not a question.

Because there’s this little thing, this minuscule bit of vital information that has finally broken through – if he can’t compartmentalize Oswald, and Oswald is, for the lack of a better expression, the other side of the coin, it stands that the same goes for Ed himself.

Because to truly be who he is, who he’s _meant_ to be, Ed can’t separate himself from, well, _himself_ ; he is not separate from the Riddler, just as the Riddler can never be separate from him. And as much as Ed hates to admit it, the reflection, before it had become a reflection, had been right about one thing – he doesn’t need fixing, and he doesn’t need anyone else to do it.

The reflection smiles, something like warmth blooming in its eyes. _Look at you go. You figured it out._  

“He helped,” Ed says, and it might not be all that important to say because it’s already implied, but, somehow, it feels like something he needs to admit.

To… himself?

Which, now that he thinks about it, begs the question: “Why do you hate him so much?”

The Mirror-Riddler shifts, its edges starting to blur. _I hate him exactly as much as you do._

Which is a non-answer if there’s ever been one. But… somehow, Ed thinks he understands. At least, he has an inkling of what the reflection means.

“And if I don’t hate him?” Ed says, already guessing what the reply will be.

 _I don’t need to say it_ , the reflection says, _but you and I both know that that’s not true. Not yet, anyway. What did we say, anyway, long before we killed him? Long before **he** took her and her blinding light away?_

Ed blinks and finds his own reflection in the mirror, dressed in the same outfit as he is, a smudge of toothpaste on his cheek.

_The heart keeps its own time._

As does forgiveness, it seems.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the penultimate chapter!   
> which means more twists and turns than a country road, oh my! 
> 
>  
> 
> well... not exactly.

Cut to: ten hours later, more or less.

If there’s one thing about The Plan that annoys Ed more than anything else, it’s that it is, by necessity, a secret: besides his co-conspirator, there’s no one who can appreciate the ingenuity of the four phases both as four separate courses of action as well as one.

Which, of course, poses a problem. And, frankly, serves to exacerbate Ed’s general feeling of boredom with being cooped up in the apartment; he’d even contemplated having a look at Oswald’s accounting papers because even _that_ is better than nothing.

And, perhaps worst of all, Oswald’s reaction to the evidence board Ed had stayed up all night to make is… not exactly what Ed had hoped it would be.

Said reaction is spoken in an incredulous tone that is so for, as far as Ed can ascertain, all the wrong reasons. “What did you do to my living room?” Oswald says, taking a few cautious steps into the living room as if the pieces of paper and thread scattered all over the walls are repulsive.

The lack of appreciation for the work of, dare one say it, true _art_ Ed had managed to come up with is nigh offensive. “It’s based on evidence boards. I’m sure you’ve heard of them,” Ed replies after the initial burst of irritation has passed.

Oswald is quiet for a moment. “And you made this for…?” he says, eyeing the pieces of red thread as if their very presence is personally insulting him.

“For us,” Ed says. After a beat, he amends: “Well, for The Plan.”

“Right,” Oswald says, and there’s a moment of silence as, Ed assumes, he takes the evidence board in in all its glory.

To be fair, maybe Ed shouldn’t refer to it as an _evidence board_ , given that there’s hardly any evidence present and it’s not a board per se. Perhaps _wall collage_ would be a more appropriate moniker. But then again, _wall collage_ doesn’t sound as good as _evidence board_ – simply put, it lacks any hint of panache.

“ _All good publicity stunts must come to an end_ ,” Oswald reads off a piece of paper on the eastern wall, also known as the section dedicated to phase four of the Plan before moving to the far end towards another piece, split into two chunks, containing the most important phrase in the world.

Well, in their current world, anyway.

Oswald points to the little title card above the chunks of paper and raises an eyebrow.

Ed finds it’s not hard to guess what he means by it. “ _The Kill Switch protocol_ ,” Ed reads, shrugging. “I thought it was self-explanatory. Don’t you?”

“Self-explanatory? For you, perhaps. Do enlighten me, though,” Oswald says, turning away from the wall to face Ed. “Seeing as, what was it you said the other day, ‘you can’t keep me in the dark anymore’? I need context.”

“I _was_ going to tell you,” Ed replies, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “And that’s partly the reason I put this whole thing–” he gestures to the evidence board / wall collage, which, now that he looks it over, has taken up most of the room– “together in the first place: I figured the specifics of the rest of the plan would be easier to follow with visual aid.”

Oswald is quiet for a moment.

“Which isn’t to imply that you wouldn’t be able to follow otherwise,” Ed adds quickly.

He’s making a terrible mess of this.

And stating the obvious.

_Off to a great start,_ the Riddler’s voice mumbles at the back of his mind – but shouldn’t he think of it as his own now? Because that’s what it is, isn’t it?

“I sure hope not,” Oswald replies, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes. “Because otherwise…“

“Oh, you know what I meant,” Ed tries, but it sounds weak even to him.

There’s a long pause and Ed starts to fear the worst. _Of course_ it’s just his luck that he’ll manage to piss Oswald off before it’s even breakfast, and _of course_ he’s going to do it on the day they’re supposed to make the announcement, and _of course_ –

Then, Oswald’s composure cracks. “The look on your face–” he manages to say before the building laughter gets the best of him.

Which…

He’s… not angry?

A welcome surprise, unlike the last time. Despite himself, Ed smiles.

“Okay,” Oswald says once he can catch his breath again. “I do think all of this is going a bit overboard, especially since we’re, what, nearing phase three? But I suppose you can walk me through it, if you must.”

Ed doesn’t need any further encouragement.

 

***

 

Cut to: ten hours later.

It’s time for the monthly meeting of the key figures in Oswald’s hefty slice of the underworld, which means it’s time for the announcement. Which…

Honestly? Does not go according to The Plan. At all.

“That’s it?” one of the consiglieres pipes up once they’re done speaking and the room has been quiet for a few moments. Upon a confused look from Oswald, the woman continues. “No offense, sir, but weren’t you already dating a long, long time ago? I mean…”

She trails off, looking to the other mobsters around the table for support. Most of them, who all happen to be named some variation of “Frank” ( _or maybe it’s a coincidence? who’s to say, really_ ), pretend they haven’t heard anything, averting their eyes and inspecting the ceiling or the floor or the table with wide eyes – as if _that_ would convince anyone they haven’t been lapping up every shred of gossip they happened upon.

Then again, to be fair, Ed had never pegged the Gotham families in general as especially bright, but if this is indeed the crème de la crème of the representatives, he fears for the future. _Their_ future, of course – the weaker they are, the easier they are to manipulate.

Then again, the weaker they are, the weaker their keeper.

But that’s a concern for another day.

Meanwhile, the consigliere looks more and more uncomfortable with every passing second, until the man sitting to her left comes to her aid. “It’s… from what I heard… before the papers…” he mumbles, avoiding looking at anyone but the consigliere and visibly trembling.

He doesn’t say anything else.

Which, honestly, seems like a good idea, given that Oswald has that look on his face again, the one that makes him look like he’s being forced to smell something rancid.

The other assorted Franks continue to pretend that this whole interaction isn’t happening.

From the three higher-tier criminals present there’s little to no reaction as if all of it has been a long time coming. Fries is inspecting his cryogun, Firefly seems to be on the verge of falling asleep, arms crossed and leaning back in her chair as comfortable as can be, and Zsasz just looks confused.

“Wait, so you’re saying you _weren’t_ dating before?” Zsasz says, brow furrowed – at least, Ed assumes it is; it’s hard to tell with him.

“I always thought they were,” Fries replies to him, not even bothering to look away from the cryogun. “Then again, love is a slippery slope.”

Firefly, meanwhile, remains as she’s been for the past ten minutes or so, leaning back in her chair and struggling to keep her eyes open. “It’s old news,” she says, holding back a yawn. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

All of which is… disappointing, to say the least.

As much as Ed hates to admit it, Firefly seems to be right. Not about _the smoke_ or _the fire_ , because, well, that’s a can of worms best left unopened for the moment, but about _old news_.

What use is a big announcement if no one is surprised?

So much for The Plan and for Ed’s brilliant idea of drumming up a few added days of publicity before phase four is to be put into motion.

A quick glance to Ed’s left reveals Oswald’s mouth has now tightened into a paper-thin line, although whether from the barrage of inane idioms or the general air of confusion and not surprise in the room, it’s impossible to say. Speaking of, the tension in the room seems to be tangible, most of the blue-collar criminals glistening from nervous sweat – although _why_ , Ed doesn’t know.

But, he supposes, he can hazard a few guesses.

Most of which mean it’s time to trigger The Kill Switch, also known as phase four of The Plan.

“Oswald. A word, if you don’t mind,” Ed mutters, pretty much dragging him away from the table by the sleeve. It’s a temporary solution in any case, but it’ll buy some time – and despite the tail end of phase two going off the rails, the dramatic conclusion is still on the table, at least for Ed.

“You’ll ruin my suit,” Oswald says, pulling his arm away and checking the sleeve over from multiple angles once they’re at the back of the room, away from the table and, perhaps most importantly, out of earshot. Well, to be fair, _says_ is a kind word for Oswald’s tone – it’s something more like a hiss, if anything.

“Your clothes are fine, stop fussing. And _we must never be afraid to go too far_ ,” Ed replies, voice quiet, and it’s a relief to see Oswald’s eyes widen.

He _does_ remember the phrase they’d agreed on.

Good.

“I…” Oswald starts, pauses for what feels like forever but is probably somewhere around four seconds. Then, he sighs and says the end of the phrase low enough that Ed has to lean in the slightest bit to hear, even though seeing the way Oswald’s mouth moves around the words would be enough to understand. “ _For truth lies beyond_.”

Phase four of The Plan is officially a-go – far ahead of schedule and skipping the bulk of phase three, but, after all, all good publicity stunts must come to an end.

“I can’t do this,” Oswald says, loud enough for the rest to hear.

The roomful of criminals who had been busy whispering among each other go silent.

“Can’t do what?” Ed asks, conjuring a look of hushed confusion.

“What’s next?” Oswald retaliates, voice still on the quiet side but sharp enough now that the others can hear. “Engagement? Marriage? _Together till death do us part_ , or until something better comes along?”

“I appreciate the _clearly_ high opinion you have of me,” Ed says, and it’s a little bit like being frozen again, a flash of heat before a wave of cold. Except this time, there’s no cold, just exhilaration.

Oswald balks at the words; from this close, Ed can see the effort he’s making to keep from laughing. From further away, though, the shock must appear genuine because some of the Franks in their little audience gasp quietly and murmur amongst each other.

“No, no, you don’t need to say anything else. I’m glad to hear I’m not good enough for the illustrious Oswald Cobblepot,” Ed snarls, and it’s a pure rush of adrenaline. Oh, how much he wants to laugh. “It’s good we got that out of the way before things got too serious, huh?”

A quick glance from the corner of his eye reveals most of their little audience of Franks et al. is eating it up, not even a peep now as everyone strains to hear their make-believe argument. Fries is even looking away from his cryogun for once.

“Ed,” Oswald says, sounding melodramatically insistent, eyes terribly wide and pleading. “Listen to me.”

“Why should I? It’s not like I have an obligation,” Ed replies, adding a little more sharpness into his voice for good measure – some more and he’ll be hissing. Which might not be a bad idea, now that he thinks about it. “It’s not like I promised I would.”

Oswald’s lip curls, almost comically so – an exaggerated performance of rage, and a convincing one at that; or, at least, it would be convincing to anyone who doesn’t know him very well. “And it’s not as if you promised to stop being childish,” he snaps back, chin defiantly jutted.  

“I never made any promises.”

“Neither did I.”

And, for the big finish…

“Fine,” Ed says after a moment of intense glaring. “Guess I’ll leave, then. Since my being here is only a burden to you.”

Oswald’s eyes widen a fraction, but he draws back and crosses his arms. “Fine. Leave, then.”

Which is as good a prompt as Ed is going to get. So, he does.

“Ooh, makes your blood boil, huh,” Firefly says once he’s halfway out the door.

Someone – probably Zsasz, although Ed can’t be sure – wolf-whistles under their breath.

Before the door closes behind him, he can hear Oswald snarl, “Every person here who opens their mouth in the next minute will get a bullet between their eyes. And that’s a promise.”

Ed can’t help grinning at that. And, besides, it’s not like anyone else can see it.

 

***

 

Being back at Cherry’s after a long absence is not at all the homecoming Ed had figured it would be.

Which is not at all to say that the reception is bad – if not enthusiastic, then Lee and Grundy appear at least pleased to see him, Grundy perhaps more so than Lee, but she does smile at him, which counts as a victory in Ed’s book even if it’s tinged with a bit of sadness.

No, what bothers him about coming back is how dingy and small the bar seems now, even more so than it had been the first night he’d been here.

How empty, damp, and cold his old room seems now.

How he keeps wanting to turn and make a comment only to find there’s no one by his side to hear it.

Because coming back to Cherry’s feels like running back home with his tail between his legs, even though the bar is not his home and never has been, and The Plan, for all its shortfalls when it came to time constraints, was successful.

It’s a little bit like that lonely month after the pier, listening for phantom footsteps and hoping for a voice that won’t be there no matter how much he feels like it should.

It’s downright miserable, is what it is.

Which is probably the reason why, on the third day after the failed announcement and the conclusion of phase four, Lee pulls him away from the bar a few hours or so before closing time.

“You’ve been sitting here sulking every day since you got back,” she says, her dark eyes narrowed but compassionate. “And you’ve been nursing the same drink for three hours. What happened?”

For a moment, Ed contemplates telling her the whole story. But what would be the point? It’s not like she can help. “The drinks here are ridiculously overpriced,” he tells her once he’s made up his mind.

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” she says, accompanied by a small laugh that nonetheless remains marred by a hint of worry – it’s nice.

It’s nice to know that at least someone cares.

Perhaps he _should_ tell her.

After all, it, whatever _it_ was, is over now – no harm done, right?

Besides, telling someone might make him feel better. And Lee _is_ the best chance he’s ever going to get at a sympathetic listener who is unlikely to use the information he gives against him.

So, he tells her.

He tells her about the aftermath of the agreement, about Martin, about the fateful dinner and everything that followed. He tells her about The Plan, even, wishing all the while that he’d had the time to get the materials of the evidence board / wall collage from his – from the _guest_ bedroom where Oswald had put them once dismantled; for a moment, he wonders if the box is still there, tucked away under the bed, waiting to be brought to the light.

He doesn’t, however, tell her about the Mirror-Riddler, nor about the conflicts that peppered his time away. He doesn’t tell her about holding Oswald’s hand at the theater even after the floor lights had gone out, and he doesn’t tell her about the bottle-green flecks Oswald’s eyes. He doesn’t tell her how much he wants to go back, and… and about things he doesn’t know how to put into words.

In short, there are plenty of things that Ed deems worthy of omission, if only to save face.

Fortunately, or perhaps _un_ fortunately, Lee is smart enough to fill the gaps for herself. She is also kind enough not to mention it even though he can see she’s guessing at least some part of what he’s not saying.

“So… that’s what happened,” Ed finishes, staring at the half-empty glass in front of him as if it contains any answers; as expected, it doesn’t.

His throat _is_ getting a bit scratchy, though, so he takes a sip. And, once it touches his tongue, nearly spits it out, because it’s lukewarm and thus nauseating. Or maybe the drink has always been nauseating and that’s the reason he hasn’t really wanted to drink it now that he’s in full control of his faculties, simple force of habit guiding his choice.

At this point, it’s impossible to tell which interpretation is the best one.

Both might be true.

Who knows?

But if there’s one thing Ed is certain about right now, it’s that a lukewarm Grasshopper is nothing short of disgusting.

He’s yanked out of his thoughts as Lee gasps quietly and sits up a little bit straighter, a strange look in her eyes. A look that spells trouble, even if Ed can’t read its exact meaning. “You’ve never been through a break-up before,” she says, as if that explains everything.

Which it doesn’t.

At all.

After Ed frowns at her for a little while, she deigns to elaborate. “Well,” she says, “we both know what happened to Kristen. And then there was the other one, the one who died. What was her name again?”

“Isabell–” Ed starts, but he’s not quite sure if it was Isabell _e_ or Isabell _a_ ; a quick review reveals that since _someone_ always insisted on getting it wrong, it must’ve been the latter. “It was Isabella.”

“Okay. But no one else?” Lee asks, her voice soft, and where Ed would expect pity, there’s just understanding.

Which might be even more irritating, come to think of it.

In any case, his current expression seems to be answer enough for her.

“No wonder you’re so miserable,” she mutters, more to herself than to him. “You’re experiencing this for the first time in your life.”

Ed huffs. “Did you miss the part where I said _fake_ -dating?”

“You believe that about as much as I do,” Lee replies, and of course she doesn’t understand. “What are you going to do now?”

Despite himself, Ed laughs, and the sound rings hollow in the empty bar. “What I’m supposed to,” he says, but it sounds more like a question than a statement.

“Alright,” Lee says, although she doesn’t look like she means it. “A word of advice, though: don’t keep making the same mistake over and over again. Speaking from experience here.”

“Speaking of, how _is_ Jim Gordon?” Ed replies, narrowing his eyes just so and cocking his head to appear nonchalant, even though he knows exactly what he’s doing.

But the thing is, it’s a low blow, and a small part of Ed regrets it the moment the words leave his mouth. Most of him, however, is pleased to see Lee’s eyes widen a fraction before she manages to mask her surprise – and is that a hint of hurt he’s detecting?

“Hey, Ed,” Lee says, a small smile on her face – well, maybe not a smile, but something more like a smirk. Something that makes her look less like the Lee Thompkins he remembers from back in the day and who he’d been talking to for the past hour, and more like the Lee Thompkins that had shot Firefly point blank. “Remember that time I punched you?” she continues, still smiling pleasantly. “If you want to keep your face intact, shut the hell up and drink your sorrows away in silence like everyone else here.”

Which, to be honest, seems as good an idea as any.

So, Ed shrugs, gets up and starts towards the bar, getting about halfway before there’s a booming voice calling his name and stopping him in his tracks.

“Delivery for Mister E. Nygma,” the voice calls.

Ed turns to see it’s one of the Franks, although, curiously enough, not one from the meeting. The Frank does, however, look familiar with his bulky stature and watery eyes, not to mention his ill-fitting but expensive suit, all of which leads Ed to believe the Frank he’s dealing with is one of Oswald’s cronies.

Then again, most of the city’s criminals are Oswald’s cronies at this point, and Ed has seen a lot of criminals over the years, so _looks familiar, tall and sad-looking in a fancy suit_ doesn’t really pin it down; he can easily think of at least ten different men who fit the description, and a few women as well.

Hell, one might even say that about Ed’s own reflection.

Still, the working theory remains that the Frank in front of Ed is one of Oswald’s.

“Delivery for Mister E. Nygma,” the Frank calls out again as if he can’t see Ed staring right at him, which he can.

So, Ed goes over, if only to stop the guy from drawing any further unwanted attention.

“Delivery for–“ the Frank starts again, but Ed cuts him off.

“What do you want?” he asks, motioning the Frank over to let a few patrons pass through the door the guy had been blocking.

“I have a delivery,” the Frank says, holding out the box he’d been hiding behind his back – for what reason, Ed can’t even begin to guess.

“I heard you the first three times you said it,” Ed replies, narrowing his eyes. “What is it?”

The Frank shrugs. “I dunno. Boss said to give it to you, told me you’d be here, so here I am. Said it was important.”

Ed fights the urge to laugh.  “You mean to tell me you didn’t sneak a little peek? Come on, Frank. Don’t lie to me.”

The Frank has the decency to look at least somewhat embarrassed. “It’s just a buncha papers and a hat, is all. I swear,” he says, eyes wide as if he’s expecting Ed to attack him at any moment. Which is _not_ going to happen. Although, now that he thinks about it, maybe he _should_ fetch Grundy…

“I’ll take it from here, then,” Ed says, far quicker than he would like, before moving to grab the box from the Frank’s hands.

The Frank, however, has other ideas. “I want my compensation,” he says, and, honestly, Ed’s taken by surprise from the fact that the Frank even knows the word _compensation_ than he is by the demand for money.

Which is probably why Ed pulls a crumpled twenty dollar note from his pocket and hands it over.

The Frank takes the money and inspects it for a few seconds before tucking it into his pocket. “Thanks,” he says and makes to leave.

Ed clears his throat, pointedly looking at the box which is now tucked under the Frank’s armpit.

“Oh, right,” the Frank says before finally, _finally_ handing it over.

Once he’s gone, Ed makes his way to the back of the bar, the box clutched firmly to his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> could it be...?
> 
> tune in sometime next week, probably, to find out!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> would you believe me if i told you i actually managed to make the deadline i set for myself with this chapter?  
> yeah, i wouldn't believe me either.
> 
>  
> 
> still, dear reader, if you've stuck with me this far - thank you, from the bottom of my shrivelled little heart.

Looking back on it later, Ed can pinpoint the moment everything went to hell.

Well, not the precise moment, per se, but at least one of the threads in the chain reaction that has brought them to this – a stand-off for the ages, except there’s only twelve of them. However, given that something like half of them are Franks and one is a crying child, said people could be tallied more as background scenery, thus bringing the total number of active participants down to single digits.

Simply put, it all boils down to a question of semantics.

And the longer Ed spends pondering on it, the more the whole thing starts to feel less like a proper stand-off and more like an awkward stand-offish triangle; then again, _stand-offish_ would be the wrong word in this context.

The point is, it’s Oswald opposite Sofia, and Ed opposite Oswald, and Ed opposite Sofia, and Oswald opposite Ed.

If there weren’t only three key players, it might even be a stand-off square.

But there’s no time to think about that now.

So, Ed steps into the light, lifts his gun, and says, “With all due respect, Ms. Falcone, if anyone is going to kill the Penguin, it’s going to be me.”

 

***

 

Cut to: three hours earlier, more or less.

Opening the Frank-delivered box the previous night had revealed what Ed had hoped it would in at least one part, with said part being the carefully packaged remnants of his evidence board / wall collage.

No, what was surprising was the hat – and not just any hat, but the same one that had been left behind after his unexpected thawing by what’s-her-name all that time ago.

The hat he’d taken from the empty guest room back at the Van Dahl manor what now seems like a lifetime ago.

There isn’t a note or anything, but the mere knowledge that Oswald had still kept it eases the loss of the new hat, if only the slightest bit.

Which brings him back to the boxed remains of the evidence board / wall collage. After a few hours of fitful sleep, reassembling it seems like something that might both ease his mind and invigorate it – if he can get everything the same way it was back at the apartment, it…

It…

He doesn’t know what he expects it to do, exactly, but whatever it might have been is certainly not what it ends up doing. Or maybe he’d been anticipating the actual result all along, some small part of him telling there had been more to the delivery than revealed at first glance.

Either way, none of that really matters. What matters is this: the evidence board / wall collage is not the same as it had been when they’d packed it up.

Well, to be fair, it’s similar enough that if one were unfamiliar with it, they wouldn’t be able to tell something was amiss, and the difference is small enough that Ed might not have noticed it at all himself – but, then again, Ed _is_ the one who put it together, which means the excessive words stick out like a sore thumb, even if there are only five of them.

Besides, they’re in Oswald’s handwriting, which sticks out next to Ed’s own, not to mention the newspaper cutouts that two of them are scribbled on the margins of.

Starting from Phase One, which doesn’t really contain anything other than a newspaper cutout of the notorious photograph and the article blurb that started everything, and through Phase Two and the ticket stubs to _Othello_ and various other paraphernalia from their outings, he finds three words: **_SOFIA_** , **_BETRAYAL_** , **_IMMINENT_**. All in Oswald’s handwriting, all hidden in plain sight.

Examining the sections dedicated to Phases Three and Four reveal another two words: he finds the first one scribbled in the margins of an article speculating about the prospect of a wedding.

_(Which, to be fair, had been ridiculous at the time to Ed but had prompted Oswald to go ballistic on one of the servers in the Lounge who had happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time… then again, it might have been the fact that the server had dropped a very expensive bottle of wine at Oswald’s feet. Who’s to say, really?)_

In any case, however, the writing simply reads **_STAY_**.

The second word appears on the first piece composing The Kill Switch, at the end of Phase Four, changing the partial phrase from _go too far_ to _go too far _**_AWAY_**. And Ed knows he hadn’t underlined the _far_ himself, which most likely means the modifier is a part of the added message.

It doesn’t take a genius to put the message together. And, honestly, it doesn’t even come as a surprise. He’d anticipated she’d make her move soon enough, and what better time to strike than now?

If she wasn’t targeting Oswald, Ed might even be impressed.

Well, to be fair, he still kind of is, regardless of the potentially disastrous consequences of said move.

And, speaking of moves, Ed should probably get going, considering how much time he’s wasted already.

 

***

 

Cut to: whatever time it is where they are now. Late evening, probably, by the looks of it.

It doesn’t really matter, anyway.

“With all due respect, Ms. Falcone,” Ed shouts, “if anyone is going to kill the Penguin, it’s going to be me.”

Next to Sofia, Barbara groans before rolling her eyes. “Not this again.”

Ed ignores her, taking a few steps toward Oswald and disregarding everyone else. “Did you think I would forget, Oswald?” he asks, pointing the gun he’s brought along right at the other’s chest, moving a little bit closer with every word.

The Franks on Oswald’s side attempt to raise their weapons at Ed, but Oswald stops them with a wave of his hand. “I’ll take care of this,” he seems to tell them, but it’s hard to say, given that he says it quietly and with his back turned to Ed.

…which isn’t really helping either of them right now.

“Did you think that I wouldn’t remember what you did, Oswald?” Ed shouts, continuing to advance until he’s about twelve feet away. “That I’d put the past behind me?” Another few steps and he’s almost in front of Oswald. “What do you call a dish that’s best served cold?”

Oswald bares his teeth to snarl something in reply but is cut off for a moment by the gun touching his throat. It’s only a momentary stop, however, because once Ed has moved in front of him so the people on the other side can’t see their faces, he hisses, “What the hell are you doing? How did you even find this place?”

“Your secretary told me. He was very helpful, actually, even offered to drive me here. And as for what I’m doing, well, I think it’s self-evident,” Ed whispers back. “I’m saving your life.”

“I _told_ you to stay away, not to try and play the white knight,” Oswald murmurs, although it’s not exactly a whisper but more like a snarl. “Did you not get my message?”

“I figured you needed help,” Ed replies, poking Oswald’s chin with the gun. “ _Thanks_ for not listening to me, by the way. Yet another part of your life I’m not privy to, it seems.”

Oswald looks about two seconds away from combusting. “ _This_ , whatever it is you’re trying to do, is anything but helping. I’m not a damsel in distress. Get out of the way.” When Ed doesn’t move, he sighs and mumbles, “I’ll explain everything later, okay? Just… trust me. Please.”

And the request – well, the mere word, really – shouldn’t be as effective as it is, but then again, Ed’s day so far has been full of surprises. So, he steps aside, moving his arm so that the gun is pointed at Oswald’s temple instead of his throat.

“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Nygma,” Sofia shouts from the other side, her hands gripping Martin’s shaky shoulders. “You’re saving me a lot of trouble by being here.”

“Please, call me Riddler. And likewise, Ms. Falcone,” Ed replies, pointedly not looking directly at her, instead keeping his focus on Oswald. Who is… rolling his eyes, apparently.

Great.

Still, it’s not as if this is anything new, so Ed ignores him. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind…” he says, trailing off.

Sofia laughs, her teeth glinting in the light like pearls. “Little Martin here gets to live only if Oswald hands over his empire to me,” she says, her delicate hand gripping the kid’s shoulder like a vise. “But you? Why, you do not factor into this equation at all, _Riddler_.”

“This is exactly why I told you to stay away,” Oswald mumbles under his breath, low enough that only Ed can hear but loud enough that his anger is painfully apparent.

“It’s a bit late for that now, isn’t it? And they’re never going to believe I’m really trying to kill you if we keep whispering like this,” Ed mutters back before turning towards Sofia and her people once more, not even bothering to wait for Oswald’s answer.

It doesn’t matter, anyway, at least not right now when there’s a situation to de-escalate.

“You think I care about the kid?” he shouts, “I don’t care what you do with him.”

Which… well, considering Ed himself doesn’t exactly have a personal attachment or really any feelings towards the kid other than a vague awareness of his existence, isn’t really a lie. Then again, considering it’s plain to see that Oswald has a soft spot for the kid and Ed evidently has a soft spot for Oswald these days, it just might be.

But this really isn’t the time for self-reflection. So, Ed continues: “Now, if you wouldn’t mind… it’s time for you to make like a tree and _leave_.”

Sofia opens her mouth, but Oswald cuts her off before she can say anything.

“I submit!” he yells, his whole body moving with the force of it. “Take the empire, Sofia, take everything, but don’t hurt the child. I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

Which… honestly, is yet another surprise – one that nearly makes Ed drop the gun.

This was not a part of the plan.

Or, more accurately, it wasn’t a part of Ed’s plan, and it throws him for a bit of a loop, unsure of what to do next.

Sofia, however, looks as if she’d expected this all along, and smiles sweetly before leaning down to whisper something in the boy’s ear.

“ _What are you doing_?” Ed hisses at Oswald as Martin takes off running towards them once Sofia lets him go.

“Give me a moment,” Oswald mumbles, not taking his eyes off the kid until he’s in front of him, then leaning down to mutter something. Martin nods, eyes wide, and…

And goes to wait in the car, apparently.

Oswald waits until the door closes behind him before speaking. “We all know my heart is my greatest weakness,” he shouts, glancing out of the corner of his eye towards Ed and the gun pointed at his temple before setting his eyes on Sofia. “But not again. Never again.”

What follows is a burst of light and movement and panic.

There’s the sound of an explosion.

Ed drops the gun.

A moment later, heat follows.

The orange glow from the burning car – Oswald’s car, the same black sedan he’d arrived at the bar in what feels like forever ago – casts strange, twisting shadows on his face.

Across the field, chaos erupts amongst Sofia’s crew as the people on Oswald’s side open fire on them.

“The manor. One hour,” Oswald says, and Ed can barely hear him over the ringing in his ears. “Go.”

For once in his life, Ed does what he’s told, and slips away as quickly and covertly as he can.

 

***

 

Cut to: an hour and a half later, and Ed is standing on the steps of the Van Dahl manor, his hat in his hands and a shiver running down his spine.

It feels like it was only a little while ago that he left the house behind, a few weeks since what happened at the docks, well, happened. The thought that it’s been almost a year feels strange, somehow, even if he objectively knows it to be true.

And he doesn’t know if he wants to open the door yet again.

Because… Because there’s a chance what happened with the car wasn’t simple sleight-of-hand, a trick concocted in advance like Ed wants to believe. There’s a chance, even if minute, that it was real. That a ten-year-old kid is dead.

And the fact that Ed can’t bring himself to ignore the possibility is what keeps him from going inside.

Or perhaps it’s the fact that, despite everything, he thinks maybe he could.

After all, Ed’s dealt out more than his fair share of death and destruction.

But not like this. Never like this. And he has certainly not, with a single exception, killed anyone who didn’t deserve it.

Then again, Oswald had asked for trust. The least Ed can do is give him a chance to fulfill his promises, to meet his part of their deal once and for all. And after that… who knows?

In any case, Ed has been standing on the doorstep for almost twenty minutes, contemplating whether to take the final step or not, and another minute or so passes before he finally makes up his mind and opens the door.

After all, there’s nothing left to lose.

 

He finds Oswald in the drawing room, facing the dwindling glow of the lit fireplace with a half-finished bottle of brandy dangling from his hand.

There are flecks of dust fluttering in the air, appearing, if only for a moment, reminiscent of embers.

“You’re late,” Oswald says without turning around, his voice the slightest bit slurred from the half-bottle of brandy. After a moment, he adds a quieter, “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

There are pieces of a shattered vase next to the sofa, glazed ceramic glinting in the low light like shards of a broken mirror.

“To be honest, I didn’t know if I would either,” Ed replies simply, pausing in the doorway for a moment before finally making his way to the sofa. “But I’m here now. For better or worse, it seems.”

“I didn’t kill him,” he says eventually, once there’s little more than ashes left of the fire. “Victor is taking him somewhere far from here. Somewhere he’ll be safe.”

Ed is quiet for a while. “That’s good,” he replies once he’s figured out there isn’t much else to say. “I didn’t mean what I said about Martin, you know. I know how important he is to you, even if I can’t say I share the sentiment – or see the appeal – myself. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. None of it was supposed to turn out this way.”

Oswald huffs a laugh, its hollow echo ringing through the room. “You know what they say about best laid plans. And, to be honest, I’m surprised it all turned out as well as it did.”

After that, the only sounds left are the creaks and groans of the old house settling in the night.

Then, somewhere down the hall, the clock strikes three.

“ _The witching hour_ ,” Oswald says softly, the dying firelight casting a shadowy glow over his face. “That’s what my mother used to call it. A time when all sorts of wonderful and terrifying things are possible.”

When murdered children may turn out to be alive after all.

When there may be something left to salvage from the ruins.

“I don’t know if I believe in magic,” Ed says after a moment, but it feels like a non-sequitur, and he knows how ridiculous it sounds the moment the words leave his mouth.

After all, doesn’t belief exist within a binary system?

But Ed will have to think about that later, because… because Oswald laughs, a little bit more genuine this time. “In _this_ city?” he asks, but that seems more of a rhetorical question than anything else.

After a moment, he laughs again, a little bit stronger, a little bit louder. A little bit more like the way he used to be around Ed; a little bit more like himself. “And especially after your – well, our – hare-brained scheme?”

It’s Ed’s turn to laugh. “Our hare-brained _publicity stunt_ , not _scheme,_ which you know as well as I do. And I’m certain we managed to fool at least a few people.”

He doesn’t say, _including ourselves_ , but he’s fairly certain it’s implied.

And fairly certain Oswald has picked up on said implication even if he doesn’t address it.

Then again, it’s hard to tell in the dark room, when he seems but a vague silhouette next to Ed, as ephemeral and as untouchable as a ghost. And it’s a terrifying thought – the possibility that Oswald, even though he’s right there, isn’t real at all. The possibility that the past month or so has been nothing but a fever dream and before Ed knows it, he will find himself awake and left with nothing.

And if that’s the case, then he truly does have nothing left to lose, and far more than nothing to gain.

Which is why Ed leans over to kiss Oswald. However, it seems like Ed wasn’t the only one who thought to make a move, which, combined with the low visibility, puts them in rather an awkward position as Ed’s nose promptly collides with Oswald’s cheekbone.

They’re both silent for a moment; on Ed’s part, said silence is dedicated to contemplating every mistake he’s ever made and comparing those to this. And in the end, he’s the one that cracks first, no more capable of stopping the nervous laughter that escapes his mouth than he can stop overthinking.

Because…

Because, the thing is, after a few seconds of silence, Oswald laughs along.

“Do you…” Ed starts, but there’s a little lump in his throat that won’t let him finish the question.

To be honest, he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to ask.

Luckily, though, Oswald seems to understand. “Try again?” he says quietly, a smile still playing at the corner of his mouth. His very, _very_ lovely mouth.

Ed nods, heartbeat like a drum in his chest. “Yes, please,” he whispers back, certain that if he tried to say it any louder, the words might fizzle out halfway through.

Needless to say, the second attempt is far more successful. And it’s nothing like what he’d imagined it would be, and nothing like the damp, saltwater and hate-filled kisses that haunt his dreams. No, it’s… sweet and…

And…

And he’s running out of breath.

So, Ed draws back reluctantly, and after a moment’s consideration, rests his forehead against Oswald’s. “Right,” he mumbles, suddenly aware that his hat is gone from his head, and even more of the fact he doesn’t really care right now.

“Right,” Oswald echoes, sounding about as out of breath as Ed feels.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Ed asks after he’s managed to get his heartrate somewhere near the normal range. “Everyone thinks I hate you.”

Oswald is quiet for a moment. “Sure, let’s say that,” he says eventually, his brow just the slightest bit furrowed as if he knows a secret that Ed doesn’t know.

Ed pulls away and narrows his eyes. “Humor me. And my question still stands. What do we do now?”

Oswald sighs, but seemingly decides to oblige. “Well, let’s see what we’ve already done, shall we? We were strangers, then acquaintances, then friends, then enemies, then pretended to date, then friends again, and now–”

“You make it all sound like a soap opera,” Ed interrupts before he can stop himself. “But… I suppose we can pretend to be enemies.”

Predictably, Oswald frowns in response. “Why?”

Which… well, Ed doesn’t really have an answer to that. Still, it doesn’t stop him from making an attempt, albeit half-hearted; he never could stand a question left unanswered. “Because the public expects it.”

“Who cares what people expect?” Oswald replies, and the phrase comes off as half question, half statement, and a convincing one at that.

Which, honestly, is a new achievement in Ed’s book.

“Fair enough,” he says, “because it would be fun. Besides, I thought you liked the attention we got. Think of the headlines they would write.”

Oswald scoffs, but doesn’t say anything else for a while. Then, after a minute or so, he mutters: “You know, for a genius, you can be pretty dumb sometimes.”

Which…

“You think I’m a genius,” Ed replies, unable to keep himself from grinning. The rest of Oswald’s words register, too – somewhere at the back of his mind, anyway. But, at this point in his life, if Ed’s learned anything at all, he’s learned to tune out things he doesn’t want to hear.

In response, Oswald rolls his eyes, fortunately looking more amused than exasperated. “That’s not the point.”

“Say it again,” Ed replies, and he almost feels dizzy. Or giddy. Either of those. Maybe both. Probably both.

Oswald, however, only laughs softly in response. “And what do I get out of it?”

“How about this: if you say I’m a genius, I’ll kiss you again.” And maybe it’s the fact that it’s easier to play this particular game in the dark, or maybe it’s just the rush from a compliment to his intellect combined with a general feeling of exhilaration, but it… it’s nice, is what it is.

To agree with his own mind for once.

To allow himself to think it.

To allow himself to verbalize it.

In any case, Oswald accepts the terms of the new agreement after a few seconds.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ bctrogues


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